Good Nightingale
by 4getmeknots
Summary: "Whenever the first snowflakes fell, lightly dotting the landscape like soft powdered sugar, she thought of Harry." Post-DH.


**Summary: **"Whenever the first snowflakes fell, lightly dotting the landscape like soft powdered sugar, she thought of Harry."

**A/N: **After having been gone from the HP and Harmony fandom for years and more recently just being a lurker... I present to you a Post-DH one-shot which turned out a lot more emotional than I thought it would. Un-beta'ed... I am forever burdened with trying to stick with Canadian/UK English but working with American word processors... but I hope you all enjoy anyway! Cheers! Please leave a review :)

* * *

**Good Nightingale**

_little bird, have you got a key?_

_unlock the lock inside of me_

_**Caught a Long Wind, **__Feist_

* * *

The first Christmas after the War proved to be more bittersweet than celebratory. Amidst the smell of pine, cinnamon and Mrs. Weasley's famous Christmas pudding, the champagne flutes were solemnly raised to those that could not be there with them. Hermione concentrated on not sneezing due to inhaling the golden bubbles as she took a sip. Few speeches were shared by those fuelled by the sting of lost loved ones [_or the several glasses of red wine served before the champagne was brought out_].

Harry Potter was not one of them.

That was when she noticed his absence.

Setting her glass down and politely excusing herself in a flurry of "excuse me"'s and "I'm just fine... just need a bit of air"'s, Hermione found herself stumbling out the back door, away from the steady hum of voices and light joyful warmth, into the Burrow's backyard. A portly garden gnome scampered by her feet, a dead leaf held above his head as snow began to fall softly from the sky.

Hermione closed her eyes, drawing herself in and crossing her arms over her chest, the wool of her sweater scratching familiarly against her arms as cool, tiny drops of moisture landed on her cheeks and eyelashes.

[_Whenever the first snowflakes fell, lightly dotting the landscape like soft powdered sugar, she thought of Harry._]

She thought of a time when the winter winds blew harsh and the cold seeped deep into her bones, cutting [_wounding_] almost as deep as the abandonment of her [_their]_ best friend. She thought of the unforgiving surroundings at the time... dry, cracked branches sticking out of the ground at threatening angles; their dead and bare limbs slashing dangerously in the violent winds [_grazing flesh if one got too close_].

How she had longed for the warmth and colours of happier and simpler times [_when the smells of unrolling fresh sheafs of parchment and the scents of freshly mown grass permeated her senses_].

But despite all that [_the gaping void left in her heart and the constant reminder of death all around them_]... he was there.

Harry [_all green eyes, blazing wands and clumsy dances around ratty, old tents_]. Warm calloused hands that simultaneously knew how to fight and carry the weight of the world. The same hands that thrummed against her waist [_and her thigh and the back of her knee and_]. His chapped lips that glided over her own, tasting [_and exploring_], whispering heated promises against her skin that would have made more sense at another time, another place [_another life]_. She remembers kissing him, their very breaths becoming one and just not being able to fathom that these lips, [_his lips]_ were the same ones that spouted curses at a tyrannical Dark Lord.

While the cold and the War waged on, Hermione remembers their moment [_their little pocket of time that was theirs and theirs alone_]. The time when the warmth they so desperately sought out could only be found in each other. When death and decay surrounded them, they drew life from each other in frenzied [_but nonetheless beautiful_] desire. She remembers passing through the proverbial kissing gates, his gloved hand in hers, on to something unknown and just as scary as [_if not more than_] the complete downfall of the Wizarding World.

Then the maelstrom that is life [_Harry's life_] happened and Hermione felt herself floundering beneath the constant onslaught of capture, destruction, death [_and red hair]_.

She opens her eyes at that thought, eyes squinting against the sting of a particularly cruel breeze. She watches him from afar as he stands out in the cold, a lone, dark figure in the Burrow's backyard, feeling the chasm between them [_and hating herself for it_]. She sees his shoulders, slumped in defeat despite the victory [_his victory_] and wishes nothing more than to run her hands over them like she once had... to splay her fingers comfortingly against his shoulder blades and breathe reassurance against the back of his neck, her body molding against his from memory.

"Harry," she says instead, the snow crunching softly with each footstep she takes towards him.

He does not turn to face her, but whispers her name in acknowledgment, the sound almost getting lost in the wind.

She's right behind him now, close enough to reach out and touch [_but she doesn't_]. Their breaths come out in tiny wisps of fog, words left unsaid dissipating just as quickly with each puff. Hermione closes her eyes for a moment and just breathes. She can _feel_ him standing there, the heat radiating off him and encompassing her in waves.

_[He's alive.]_

Her eyelids lift open and she blinks, suddenly not quite able to believe that this moment between them, no matter how constrained, was happening.

[_After everything... Harry is alive._]

Tentatively, Hermione reaches out and lays a hand upon his shoulder from behind. There's a million things she wants [_and needs]_ to say, the words beating furiously against her chest like hummingbird's wings but never quite making it up to her lips.

_[He needs time.]_

Swallowing past the ball lodged in her throat, Hermione gently squeezes his shoulder which is finally enough to make him turn his head to see her. His dark lashes look soft against his cheek as his gaze falls upon the hand on his shoulder, as if just realizing its presence.

"It's time to come inside, Harry," Hermione says, her voice solid and true amongst the swirling eddies of snowflakes. A beat passes as Harry considers her words [_their meaning_] before he turns around to face her, taking hold of her hand.

_[It's time to come back to me, Harry_.]

_It's time to come home._


End file.
